


Pretty Boy

by dirtynutmeg (fairdeath)



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Asphyxiation, Body Worship, Breeding Kink, Choking, Clothed Sex, Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Genital Piercing, Humiliation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Pet Names, Piercings, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Smut, Sykkuno Is Trans In This One, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, trans author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28609302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairdeath/pseuds/dirtynutmeg
Summary: Corpse leans close to the mirror, fingertips coated in chipped black polish holding the skin around his eyes to warp and control it. The kohl pencil presses against the skin, leaving its mark, before Corpse leans back to check the progress. He repeats this process four or five times before nodding to himself. Sykkuno isn’t sure what makes him do it, but as he watches Corpse cap the pencil again, he hears himself ask.“Can you do mine too?”
Relationships: Corpse Husband/Sykkuno (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 438
Collections: Done Reading





	Pretty Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Write the fic you want to see in the world, but by god, nutmeg, this is 12,000 words of smut you dumb bitch.
> 
> For my trans masc people who might be triggered by terms used, Sykkuno's junk is referred to using: lips, cunt, cock, dick, vulva, hole.

Corpse is beautiful: he has dark curls that frame his face, strong cheekbones that underline his dark eyes, and the sharp point of his nose leads to plump lips. It all comes together in a cacophony to form a breath-taking marble statue of a man. Despite living with him, waking up to see his face every morning or seeing his skin in the golden hour light of their window, Sykkuno drinks him in every chance he gets.

And then, sometimes, when Corpse wants to impress or feel really good about himself, he will top off his beauty with eyeliner. It depends on the day and his mood for how it’s done. If he’s feeling dishevelled and wants to put people off talking to him, he will blur kohl crayon along his lash lines, his eyes dark and broody like his mood. If he’s feeling good about himself and knows how hot he is, he will make himself even hotter by flicking the tip of a liquid eyeliner brush into the sharp edge of a cat-eye and elongate a point on his inner corner too. Without fail, it makes Sykkuno’s palms sweaty. 

They agreed to dinner with friends earlier in the week. Sykkuno was ready much faster than Corpse - it doesn’t take long to blindly reach for a clean shirt and jeans, while Corpse spends time deliberating his choices and the messages each clothing piece sends. Sykkuno watches him dress, disrupting and stalling his progress by brushing away the hair that falls in his face to hook over his ear, his touch lingering, or kissing his jaw or shoulder. He’s always big on touch and likes to feel Corpse against his in whatever way he can, whether they’re holding hands during their drives or sitting thigh to thigh on the couch. 

After Corpse is clad in soft black wide-leg pants, donned with metal clips and zips, with his black button-down mostly  _ un _ buttoned and sleeves rolled to his elbows, sporting a pink flush from Sykkuno’s attention tinting his cheeks, he escapes to the adjoining ensuite bathroom and digs through the top drawer of the cabinet in search of something. When he withdraws his hand, the kohl pencil of black eyeliner is in his grip. Sykkuno resigns to sitting on the edge of the bed, palms pressed into the plush of the mattress behind him, his toes pressed into the carpet. Their ensuite is only so big, and it feels dangerous to taunt or distract Corpse when he’s doing such delicate detail near his eyes. He watches for a few moments, humming along to the music stuck in his head. Corpse leans close to the mirror, fingertips coated in chipped black polish holding the skin around his eyes to warp and control it. The pencil presses against the skin, leaving its mark, and Corpse leans back to check the progress. He repeats this process four or five times before nodding to himself. Sykkuno isn’t sure what makes him do it, but as he watches Corpse cap the pencil again, he hears himself ask. 

“Can you do mine too?”

Corpse pauses. He slowly raises his head, wide eyes coming to lock on to Sykkuno’s, pupils dark and expansive. Corpse’s voice is soft and breathless when he murmurs, “Yeah, sure,” his voice vibrating off the bathroom walls like hymns in a church.

Corpse walks to him, magnetized, with the pencil in his right hand, as Sykkuno scrambles to stand. He smacks his lips when he reaches Sykkuno’s personal bubble, eyes full of racing thoughts. Sykkuno’s hands instantly lift to hold on to Corpse’s hips, thumbs pressing into the flesh of his hip bones beneath the silky fabric of his dark button-up. Sykkuno’s eyes flick left and right, undecided on which of Corpse’s to focus on, or if he even should focus on him. Corpse’s left hand raises between them, cupping Sykkuno’s chin between his forefinger and thumb. He smells like fresh pine wood and clean metal. A shaky breath leaves Corpse’s lips, and the warmth of it caresses Sykkuno’s neck. 

“Stay still for me,” he instructs, lifting the pencil. Sykkuno nods, his head shaking Corpse’s grip on him. Corpse immediately breathes a huff of laughter, a smile curling the corners of his mouth up, his big brown eyes rolling. He sighs, shaking his head. 

“I change my mind,” he declares. “Go lie down on the bed on your back,” he gives the soft order, gesturing to the bed. Sykkuno nods again, sharp and pointed, before turning on his heel. He hears the jostle of the metal clips and rings on Corpse’s outfit cut through the air before he feels the gentle slap of Corpse’s empty hand on his behind as he goes. His cheeks feel warm and his tongue is thick in his mouth. 

He sinks into the mattress as he gets comfortable, and he watches Corpse hold himself by his palms, bringing his knees up on the bed. He crawls up Sykkuno’s legs, bracketing them. He kneels, bordering Sykkuno’s waist, before sitting back, resting high on Sykkuno’s thighs. Sykkuno spreads his fingers on Corpse’s knees, then drags them up the thigh of his thighs along the soft thick cotton of his pants, his fingers sliding along the cold of metal clips. He feels the muscles of Corpse’s thighs tremble and flex under the attention as he goes, watches the shiver roll through him when Sykkuno’s thumbs press into the divots of his hips. 

"Let's try this again," Corpse murmurs, removing the cap from the sharpened end and attaching it to the tail end. Sykkuno nods and looks up to Corpse, eyes wide in anticipation. Corpse rests the meat of his palm on the curve of Sykkuno’s cheekbone, ready to strike with the pencil. His other hand returns to rest on Sykkuno's chin, cupping it in the crook of his curled index finger. He adjusted the angle of Sykkuno’s head, tilting it up a little further. After a moment, their breathing the only soundtrack, and Sykkuno's shaky at best, Corpse chuckles and adjusts his grip on the pencil, tapping the hollow of Sykkuno's temple with the pad of his middle finger. "Close your eyes, Sy," he tells him. Sykkuno nods and closes his eyes, keeping his eyebrows raised. 

The feeling of the pencil against the thin skin near his eyes makes him flinch at the moment of contact, but he relaxes quickly, breathing out the little shock of it. Corpse murmurs progress updates as he goes, “Inner lid done,” and “just going to blur this bit,” and “this eye done.”

“Okay, ‘kkuno,” Corpse leans up, pulling back from the closeness, “open your eyes and look up.”

Sykkuno slowly opens his eyes, locking on to the haloed light that filters from the ceiling light behind Corpse to shine from his curls that curtain his face. His lips part slightly, breath catching in his throat. His beauty could topple empires and even the strongest of men’s wills, yet his attention is entirely focused on Sykkuno, oh how lucky he feels. Sykkuno’s looks through lowered lashes to Corpse above him, painfully aware of the weight of the man sitting atop him.

Corpse sits further back, withdrawing his hands. He twirls the pencil over and under his knuckles, once, twice, three times, before removing the cap from the tail end and recovering the point. He leans up across Sykkuno to flick the pencil to the bedside table. It clatters against the table, then rolls further, eventually dropping to the carpeted floor. Corpse presses himself back down to be seated on Sykkuno’s thighs, knees clicking and tendons stretching into place, and tilts his head to admire his work. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment before lifting his right hand to bring to cup Sykkuno’s cheek. 

“Angel, you look so  _ good _ right now,” Corpse purrs, stroking his thumb across the swell of his cheekbone. His dark eyes look down at Sykkuno with heavy lids through the thick curtain of lashes. The shiver that courses through Sykkuno’s veins makes his eyes drift closed and instantly warms the skin under Corpse’s hand, the praise and attention lighting up Sykkuno’s brain. The eyeliner feels weird - it isn’t sticky, but it is tacky on the thin skin of his eyes. Corpse trails his hand down the edge of Sykkuno’s face, fingertips lighting a fire in their wake. He caresses the sharp line of Sykkuno’s jaw, coming to rest at his chin. He tilts Sykkuno’s head up, then drops his own close, slotting his lips over Sykkuno’s. Corpse swallows Sykkuno’s whimper, smiling into the kiss. He presses closer, rolling his hips down. Sykkuno breaks the kiss, a groan slipping from his lips. Corpse loves how audible he gets, how reactive he is. Corpse catches Sykkuno’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugs out and down as he pulls his mouth away from the intoxicating taste of Sykkuno, their foreheads pressed together. They pant, the waft of their warm breath mingling together, before Corpse sits up, one hand on Sykkuno's sternum to give himself balance and presence.

Corpse’s fingers slide down the length of Sykkuno's throat and come to rest in the tiny dip above his Adam's apple, pinching there. He presses down, the slightest hint of pressure, and waits. Sykkuno’s hands, gripped tight on Corpse’s hips, flex and relax several times. A shaky breath falls from his open mouth, his eyes squeezed shut tight, already tilting his head back to invite Corpse in more. 

"Colour?" Corpse asks. It's an ask on a technicality but is spoken without inflection. It's an order. One that Sykkuno scrambles to provide. Sykkuno swallows against the dryness in his mouth before answering, and Corpse feels the roll of his tongue and esophagus beneath his fingers. 

"Green," Sykkuno chokes out - not because of Corpse’s hold, but because of the emotion and feeling that has set his nerves alight. "Green, so green, please-"

"Kitten, you're so pretty when you beg like that," Corpse interrupts him. His fingers pinch together tight, and Sykkuno takes in a thick, caught off breath. "Such a good baby boy for daddy, aren't you?" He murmurs. 

Sykkuno whimpers, high pitched and reedy, nodding as far as Corpse's grip allows him to. 

"Look at me, honey," Corpse orders. "Don't you want to keep being good?" He taunts, and Sykkuno's fingers press tight enough to bruise on Corpse’s hips. He opens his eyes from their scrunched closed position and looks to Corpse, already glazed over with lust and want. Sykkuno tugs on Corpse’s hips, pulling him closer despite the flush connection of thigh to thigh. Corpse tenses his thighs, though, cementing himself in his place. A smirk curls the corners of Corpse’s mouth, a tsk-tsk falling from his clicking tongue, the click of the steel ball on his piercing audible. Sykkuno instead changes his plan of attack, tugging the soft silk where it tucks into the hem of Corpse's pants. He doesn't untuck it entirely, only the sides, and as soon as enough is withdrawn, Sykkuno slides his palms under the fabric to the flesh beneath it. 

The reaction of the skin to skin contact is instant - Sykkuno stops squirming and becomes placid and attentive immediately to Corpse. He becomes quiet, no whimpers or frantic gasps. 

"There you go, principe," Corpse murmurs, stroking Sykkuno's sternum with the thumb pressed over it. "Let daddy take care of you, yeah?" he murmurs, like settling a crying child. Sykkuno slowly nods, lips barely parted, the look of a feral animal in heat filling his eyes. 

"Shall I tell you what I'm going to do, sweets?" Corpse asks, and even this far under, Sykkuno knows it's rhetoric. He nods anyway, an audible hiccup in his voice clear. "I'm going to work you up like the good little whore you are, cover you in the smell of me, so you know whose you are," he starts, and Sykkuno would cower at the embarrassment of it all if he weren’t so fucking aroused. "I'm going to suck that pretty little dick of yours until you can't take it anymore, and then I'm going to fill that gorgeous hole with my fingers, make you come so hard you see stars. After that, I'll stuff you full of my cock, fill you right up," Corpse lists off, monotonous and flippant like he's reciting the groceries he needs to collect before dinner. He tilts his head to tight slightly as he considers Sykkuno, spread beneath him, "how does that sound?" 

Sykkuno lets out a tight, pained garble of approval, nodding, eyes unmoving from Corpse’s lips. Corpse hums affirmingly. 

“Where should we start, kitten?” he asks, knowing full well that Sykkuno in this state cannot find words around the thickness of his state this way. Corpse takes his left hand and slides his palm under the threadbare fabric of Sykkuno’s shirt, and it’s like electricity firing under his skin when the cool fingertips of Corpse’s hand touch the ticklish skin of Sykkuno’s torso. His fingers spread wide, he presses firm as he pushes his palm up, up, up, riding the fabric up as he goes. Over the rise of ribs, the divots between catching on the ice-cold steel of his thick rings, and up beyond the swell of his pectorals. The shirt slides up the silk shirt, the softness tickling the skin of Sykkuno’s tummy as it flays out across his torso. Corpse’s fingertips skate across a pebbled nipple until it sits in the centre of his palm, then he curls his fingertips, blunt nails pressing into the skin surrounding it, and pulls his hand firmly back down, leaving red lines in its wake. The middle finger catches the sensitive nub, and Sykkuno arches his back into the feeling, all too much and not enough all at once. 

“Ah, mmph!” Sykkuno reacts, his mouth making sounds he isn’t conscious of, revealing everything to Corpse and yet it isn’t enough. Sykkuno’s breath is coming quicker now. 

“Listen to you, baby boy,” Corpse’s voice, lower and more gravelled than it even is usually, “sound so good for daddy, so sensitive, just for me.” Sykkuno, strained, shakes his head in tiny nods, a whimper of absolute agreeance bleeding into the air. “Let’s see how much noise we can get you to make, shall we?” he speaks, and it feels like a threat, filling Sykkuno with a rush of adrenaline and want and need. His nerves are all firing off, hairs on his arms standing to attention, with tears welling in his eyes.

Corpse shimmies his hips backwards, sitting further down on Sykkuno’s thighs. He releases his hold on Sykkuno’s throat and slides that hand to Sykkuno’s hip. He brings both hands to the hem of Sykkuno’s shirt and wiggles and tugs it up, the arch of Sykkuno’s back easing the way. Sykkuno refuses to relinquish his skin to skin contact with Corpse’s hips, fingers pressed firmly against the bone hidden by soft pale skin. Corpse knows he won’t so he slides his palms down Sykkuno’s biceps, over the outer point of his elbows, along the length of his forearms, to where his hands hold tight. Corpse threads his fingers under Sykkuno’s palms to relinquish their hold, then brings them together in his grasp. 

He holds Sykkuno’s palms together, pressed in a prayer steeple, the spread of Corpse’s square palms and long fingers holding them together in one of his own by Sykkuno’s thin wrists. Through lowered lids, he keeps his eyes on Sykkuno and brings their hands to his mouth, pressing wet kisses to the sensitive skin of each finger. When he reaches the tips of Sykkuno’s index fingers, he pauses, making sure Sykkuno is watching his mouth. Once confirmed, his tongue darts out, a stripe licked from the first knuckle to tip. The hard steel ball of Corpse’s tongue piercing against the soft and pliant muscle of his tongue sends shivers up Sykkuno’s arms, a sharp inhale of anticipation shooting through him. Corpse takes the tip of his right index finger in his mouth, sucking tight, plump lips rosy in their pucker. While doing so, he swirls his tongue around the end of the finger, feels the steel ball catch on the tip of Sykkuno’s nail. Corpse feels like he’s falling endlessly; the adrenaline of lust alighting his senses, and the love he feels for Sykkuno. 

“Come here, angel,” Corpse orders, as he balls his other hand into a fist in Sykkuno’s shirt. He tugs him up by the fabric, immediately swallowing his  _ mph _ of unexpected movement when Corpse’s lips wrap over Sykkuno’s. Corpse’s tongue immediately swipes across Sykkuno’s top lip, asking, no, demanding, entry. Sykkuno complies, pliant under Corpse’s touch. Corpse licks up into Sykkuno’s mouth, letting his grasp on the fabric go, shirt falling into its resting place once more. Corpse releases his grip on Sykkuno’s wrists, lowering his hands to the hem of the shirt. Corpse’s tongue maps Sykkuno’s mouth as it always does, swallowing down the garbled and breathy noises that escape from Sykkuno in return. With a prominent swirl of his tongue against Sykkuno’s, he withdraws, a sharp inhale of much-needed air filling his lungs. Sykkuno gives chase, trying to bring Corpse back to him. 

“One  _ second _ , baby,” he chuckles, as his arms raise to bring the shirt overhead. The moment Sykkuno is free of it, Corpse throws it to the side, away from the bed. While doing so, he slams the heel of his palm against Sykkuno’s sternum to push him away and down, back against the mattress. Sykkuno falls, his hair billowing against the pillow and away from his face, his hands attempting to soften the fall by pressing into the covers behind him. Corpse looks down the sharp line of his nose at Sykkuno, at the rosy tint on his cheeks and chest, four lines of raised red over his right pectoral, his brown nipples pebbled and standing to attention.

“So fucking beautiful,” Corpse purrs, open palms rubbing a line down Sykkuno’s arms in tandem, coming to unfurl Sykkuno’s fingers that are clenching the duvet cover and raising them above his head. The movement causes Sykkuno’s back to arch, pushing his chest out. “So handsome, look at you, angel,” Corpse babbles, mouth a running facet of praise and worship. Corpse adjusts Sykkuno’s hands to bring them together, holding them with one hand pressed firmly against them. Corpse’s other hand combs through Sykkuno’s hair, brushing it away from his face. Tears have escaped him, sliding down towards his temples, cool and wet against his skin that feels so hot it may combust into flames. Sykkuno keeps his eyes open, always on Corpse, watching the way his hair bounces with the slightest movements, the way his lips curl around the syllables as they fall, the way his Adam’s apple bobs with his speech. The darkness in his eyes, the thick lashes that frame them, makes him feel open and naked and vulnerable under his gaze. 

Corpse buries his face into the crook of Sykkuno’s neck, nose pressed against the skin at the base of his throat. The warmth of Corpse’s breath washes over him, audibly heavy, like a wild animal that has caught their prey. Sykkuno feels the wet warmth of Corpse’s tongue dance across the dip in his clavicle, the dampness left behind immediately cooled in the air, a sharp comparison of sensation for his body to be left to process, nerves already in overdrive. He flexes his fingers, aching to hold Corpse closer, to press himself against the hard lines and sharp edges of Corpse’s body, held in place by the tight circle of Corpse’s grip on his wrists.

If he can’t get more contact, he can certainly increase the friction of the contact he does have. It’s difficult with Corpse sitting atop his thighs, his weight holding him in place, bracketed by the thick muscle, but he does his best. Sykkuno rubs his thighs together, the thick barrier of his jeans holding him back, dulling any sensation he may have been successful to. It isn't much, but the dulled back and forth against his loins feeds the hunger inside him, fuels the raging fire despite Corpse holding him still. Corpse chuckles in the dip of Sykkuno's collarbone, teeth nipping at the skin, a mottling of markings sure to be brought to the surface. 

"Careful, kitten," Corpse taunts, "be good. Naughty boys get nothing." 

Sykkuno preens at this. "Please, let me touch you. I need more," he begs, tongue wetting his lips, chest aching with desire to _ touch, hold, feel _ .

Corpse sits back, looking down at Sykkuno down the length of his nose, and Sykkuno feels like prey. 

"Okay," Corpse concedes, "okay, sure." Corpse readjusts his position, kneeling up and shifting to straddle one thigh instead. Corpse presses his knee high, high up in the crook of Sykkuno’s legs, putting pressure right where he desires it. It pulls a sigh of relief from Sykkuno, who instantly wants to push back against the feeling and pull away to reduce the overload all at once. 

Corpse brings his hands to Sykkuno's hips, holding tight, blunt nails gripping at the skin. 

“Sluts take what they want," Corpse growls, pulling his hips down against the hard line of his thighs. "So go ahead and take it, Sykkuno” Corpse orders. It elicits a Pavlovian response in Sykkuno, his mouth watering and feeling empty at the same time. He grinds down, dull pressure against his cock, finally relieving the built-up pressure while simultaneously increasing it. Whimpers and little grunts fall from his lips as he does. It's difficult with his hands above his head, no grip or stabilizing point, but he wants to be good,  _ needs  _ to be good, so he does as he is told. 

"There you go, that's a good boy," Corpse murmurs, and Sykkuno can see his chest rise and fall in uneven, stilted breaths. "Okay, that's enough," Corpse instructs, holding his arms tense, stilling Sykkuno's movements beneath him. 

Corpse's fingers move to the fly of Sykkuno's jeans, making Sykkuno's stomach quiver with the feather-light touch. Corpse presses a thumb to the button at the top, looking up at Sykkuno’s face. He raises an eyebrow, the jewelry through the curve of his brow punctuating the statement - a silent question. 

“Off?” Corpse asks. He knows the answer, could bet his life on it, but needs to hear it before he continues. Sykkuno nods so hard and fast that Corpse is certain he hears something click. 

“Not good enough, Sy,” Corpse  _ tsk _ s. “I need to hear it, and you know that,” he reprimands, and being under the weight of Corpse’s disappointed pause makes him feel the need to cower, nervous. 

“Yes, yes, take them off,” he breathes, biceps flexing as he holds his arms above his head. They’re aching, warm and tight. His shoulders are starting to hurt with the angle. “Can I move my arms yet?” he asks, putting as much begging as he can into the sound of it. They both know it’s a plead, a formal ask but more of a tell. 

“Yes, in a second,” Corpse allows. “Give me a moment, angel,” he purrs. 

Corpse pushes the button through the hole, the slightest pressure pushing Sykkuno’s ache for want, desire, need even higher in anticipation. The dull ching-ching of each tooth on the zipper coming undone feels like chains whipping against his skin in the distance. Once it reaches the base, Corpse lets his fingers press into the hole there, just pressing against the mound of flesh, a taunt for what’s to come. Sykkuno rolls up against the feeling, chasing it like a man chasing an oasis in the desert. Corpse shuffles backwards down to the foot of the bed, still leaning over Sykkuno’s hips. Corpse leans close, his dark curtain of hair tickling the bare skin with its faint brush against it. Sykkuno feels his muscles quiver under the attention. Corpse places his hands back against Sykkuno’s hips, curling the nails to claw at the skin as he grips the loose hem of the jeans to roll them down his thighs. 

“Lift up,” Corpse instructs him, pressing a wet kiss to the divot on the inside of Sykkuno’s hip. Sykkuno can feel the warmth of Corpse’s breath as it rolls over his skin. He does as he is told, and tries not to chase after Corpse’s mouth with it. The jeans roll over his skin, every weave of the heavy fabric catching on the hair of his thighs as it goes, an uncomfortable but grounding pinching tug. Sykkuno watches with darkened eyes as Corpse follows the reveal of skin as the jeans lower, feels the brush of his locks against the static-risen hairs, feels the press of his lips and teeth and tongue against the gooseflesh as it rises. Once the fabric pools at Sykkuno’s feet, he feels Corpse’s grip wrap around his right ankle, hand hot against his cool flesh. He looks up at Sykkuno, mouth slightly agape, and raises his foot, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his ankle before tugging the fabric off the leg, then repeats the process with the other foot. Thick and heavy denim removed, the cool draft of evening air on Sykkuno’s bare skin is a sharp comparison to the heat rising from his body. 

Corpse lowers his foot back to the bed, then steadies himself with flattened palms on his shins. Corpse slides his palms up, up, up Sykkuno’s shins, the hairs on his legs catching and lighting up his touch receptors as he goes, leaving a path of  _ Corpse, Corpse, Corpse _ in their wake. As he reaches Sykkuno’s knees, he wraps his palms under the crook of them and lifts them to bend them and flay them outwards, exposing the wet patch in his boxer briefs to the cool air, and leaving a Corpse-sized gap between Sykkuno’s thighs. 

The sight of Corpse between his thighs never ceases to impress, amaze, and overwhelm Sykkuno all at once.

“ _ Pretty _ ,” Sykkuno breathes out at the sight. Corpse huffs at this, lips caught in an open-mouthed, hungry grin, cheeks flushed with lust and adrenaline, but now with something softer, too. 

Corpse continues his roll back to hover over Sykkuno’s boxers, and once there, he breathes a sigh and rests his head against Sykkuno’s upper thigh. Sykkuno feels the softness of Corpse’s curls cupping his hip and the thickness of his gluteus medius. He feels the hard shell of the long industrial bar in Corpse’s ear press into the fat of his thigh, feels the point of the jewelry and the curve of Corpse’s ear press lines into his skin. Sykkuno drinks in his face in the pause of the moment. The shine of the light reflecting off his hair, the silver of his piercings against the tan of his skin, the smattering of freckles high on his cheek that are barely visible during winter months, the plump fullness of his bottom lip, the dip of his Cupid’s bow, the way he looks at Sykkuno like Sykkuno is looking at him. 

“You can move your hands now, Sykkuno,” Corpse allows him in the still of the moment. Sykkunos’ reaction is immediate. His hands instantly whip to Corpse’s hair, threading through the locks from his fringe, his sugar cookie skin glowing beneath the locks in comparison to Corpse’s molasses coloured hair. His fingers bury themselves through, spread wide, then Corpse inhales sharply as Sykkuno clenches his hand into a loose fist. His eyes close quickly, relishing in the feeling, drifting together. 

Corpse opens his eyes, hunger burning in them like he’s starving. Keeping his eyes locked to Sykkuno’s, he lifts his head just enough to exhale hot and wet over Sykkuno’s mound, directly over the spot he can feel is damp already. His fingers clench in Corpse’s hair at the feeling, already so much and nowhere near enough. He’s trying to pull Corpse closer and push him further away, trying to push him down towards his crotch and to pull him up to his mouth to kiss him stupid. It all boils down to clenching fingers in Corpse’s hair and shaky breaths coming fast through his teeth. Corpse takes pity on him, pushing his fingers beneath the hollow in the waistband, rolling the fabric down. He sits up, flat on his shins, Sykkuno’s hands falling from his hair, sliding out of the soft as silk locks. Corpse shimmies the fabric on the left, then right, repeating until he can peel the fabric from his achingly empty and wet cunt, exposing Sykkuno entirely to the air and to  _ him _ . 

“Legs up, take ‘em off,” Corpse tells him, words coming somewhere between a soft order and a gentle instruction. Regardless, Sykkuno does as he’s told, muscles in his torso clenching as he raises his knees to kick the fabric from his legs. Corpse laughs at his eagerness, and under any other circumstances it would make Sykkuno’s heart flutter, but in the current one, it just makes his dick  _ throb _ . Sykkuno’s left hand grips the elastic probably too hard, tiny little snaps as the elastane threads crack under the strength of his grip, but he manages to throw them across the room, lost to the empty space of the world that is not Corpse’s attention on him. As his grip on the boxers leaves his hand, he lowers his legs once more, legs spread far more than is necessary, the air bitingly cold against the wetness at the apex of his thighs. 

“Sykkuno,” Corpse sing-songs, palms rubbing up and down the length of Sykkuno’s thighs, covering as much of the skin as he can. He starts on the outermost edge, then begins to work closer to the inner thigh as he goes. “Look at you,” he praises, “ _ look _ at you, Sykkuno. You’re so open for me, fucking  _ gorgeous _ .”

“All for you,” Sykkuno murmurs, “all of me is for you, Corpse,” he continues, soft and true, holding his hands out towards Corpse’s own, or his hair, or his hips, or  _ anything _ . 

Corpse’s eyes soften at that. How can he resist? Corpse leans up to Sykkuno’s mouth, cupping his jaw in one hand. Sykkuno’s hands grasp at Corpse’s back, pressing him as close as possible. Sykkuno feels Corpse resist the pressure, muscles of his back flexing with it. Corpse presses a slow and soft kiss to his mouth, portraying all he can with the connection of their lips. As he pulls away, a string of saliva lingers, breaking longer after their kiss ends. Sykkuno feels himself weaken under Corpse’s gaze, heavy with want. He wants, too. 

Corpse presses kisses along the line of his chest, pressing one, two, three there, sucking at the skin. He allows his hands to hold Sykkuno’s hips still, avoiding him bucking into the air like he had tried earlier. His tongue laves at the soft skin of his stomach, and he hums at the twitching of muscles under his attention. When he reaches where Sykkuno wants him most, he pauses, contemplative. Corpse wriggles himself backwards, lying flat between Sykkuno’s thighs. He puts a hand on either knee and pushes them further apart, and Sykkuno feels his lips part. He clenches at the cold air, the emptiness filling him, a void filled with pure hunger in and of itself. 

“Angel, look how pretty you are,” Corpse breathes, his paise like an art collector stumbling upon a priceless piece. He brings his hands to the apex between Sykkuno’s thighs, the heat of his hands feeling cold in comparison to how hot Sykkuno is. He presses in and down against the fat of his vulva, exposing his cock a little further, standing to attention. The coolness of the air is sobering, if only for a split second, before the pointed coolness of Corpse blowing against his cock sends him trying to climb up the walls. Sykkuno hears himself panting and crying before he realises he’s doing it, the ache of his chest moving so harshly nothing in comparison to the harsh grip of his fingers that forcefully thread through Corpse’s soft locks once more. Sykkuno feels his cock jerk at the attention, feels the roll of his foreskin pulling back from the head, feels it slip behind the head of his cock. 

“Such a pretty little dick you have, Sy,” Corpse murmurs, punctuating his statement with a soft left and right billow of pointed blowing against the swollen flesh. “It’s so  _ tiny _ ,” Corpse taunts, and Sykkuno feels himself flush, embarrassed and ashamed at the words, “but so perfect,” Corpse promises, Cheshire cat smile, toothy and proud, covering his face. 

He licks his teeth through it, then rests his head back along the length of Sykkuno’s thigh, the weight not enough to ground him, but enough to divert his attention. His eyes are locked on Sykkuno’s cock, watching with interest like he’s a scientific study to be toyed and experimented with. 

“Such a beautiful little dick,” Corpse sing-songs, “it’s just  _ so _ responsive.” To explain, Corpse lifts his right hand and brings his index finger and thumb to hover Sykkuno’s cock. Sykkuno can see how close his fingers are, how close the friction is, how close the attention is, and he feels himself twitch and clench at the same time, enough to brush against Corpse’s fingers at the peak of his reaction. It sends electricity through his veins, an unexpected cry of pleasure echoing off the walls. Corpse lifts his face and presses it directly against the skin of Sykkuno’s thigh, chuckling at him. After exuding his bout of laughter, he presses a gentle kiss to the skin there before returning his head to rest on its side, eyes pinned to Sykkuno’s centre, looking like a cat that caught its mouse.

Corpse’s fingers strike, gripping the base of Sykkuno’s cock between them, pinching it firmly, tightly,  _ painfully _ in all the right ways, tugging up on it with fast little flicks of his wrist. Sykkuno’s fingers claw-like a cat in a fight, nails extended and sharp, gripping tight in Corpse’s soft curls. He feels the growl of pleasure roll through Corpse’s chest against his thigh, and he tilts his hips towards it, aching for more, more, _ more _ .

“Angel, you look so good like this, all spread out for me,” Corpse breathes, the vibrations rolling over Sykkuno’s skin like velvet and liquid gold. Corpse’s fingers jerk at his cock, but recede the more Sykkuno tilts his hips towards Corpse’s body, a subconscious begging his body shows without asking permission. He slows to a standstill, holding firm at the base. Sykkuno can feel the dryness of the air around them as it brushes over the exposed head where Corpse holds the foreskin back, can feel the warm wet of Corpse’s breath from the opposite side of the cool draft. Corpse lifts his head and positions himself directly in front of Sykkuno’s centre. Slowly, painfully slowly, he rolls his fingers up the shaft, eyes glued to Sykkuno, watching the way his body moves. Sykkuno feels his foreskin touch the head of his cock, then envelope it as best it can with the growth he’s had. He feels Corpse’s fingers pull at the skin as he drags them up the sides of the shaft before catching on the divot of the head where the foreskin covers, continuing up until his hand falls free of Sykkuno’s cock.

With the seconds of reprieve he’s given, Sykkuno swallows hard, taking a moment to catch his breath. He pants heavily, rasping with the fire and electricity spiking in his veins. His neck feels hot with the blood pumping under his skin, his forehead feels clammy and damp where strands of hair stick to it, and his arms ache from exertion. He releases the death-grip his fingers hold in Corpse’s hair, lets the locks slip through his fingers. And he folds them over his stomach. 

Corpse doesn’t let him free for long. In the same breath that Sykkuno lays his hands over his stomach, Corpse takes a hand in a relaxed cup and brushes it through the slick Sykkuno is dripping like a faucet. Sykkuno’s fingers slap against the mattress, flexing his fingers in the cotton of the bed covers, his gasps swallowing the oxygen in the air. Corpse wipes his fingers through the wet like he’s wiping them of dirt, but is filthying his fingers with each pass, up and down. Sykkuno feels the edges of blunt nails, the head of chunky rings, the point of knuckles all getting their fill, lighting his nerves like a match in a haystack.

“Oh, honey,” Corpse coos, tilting his head, “look how red and swollen your little cock is.” Sykkuno’s breath catches, stilted like he’s tripped down the last three steps on the stairwell. He can’t look, can’t see himself. All he can see is Corpse. “Angel, that must hurt so bad, huh?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Sykkuno hisses, tipping his head up to the ceiling, eyes unseeing. “Yes, more, c’mon,” he grunts, the vibration shaking his chest. 

“Your wish is my command, principe,” Corpse promises. He plays with the wetness, coating his hand, dragging it back and forth across Sykkuno’s centre, before pulling it up, up across the head of his cock, grinding his heel into it in circles. Sykkuno sobs, feeling the calluses on the top of his palm rub and knock against the tender, sensitive flesh. His back arches, trying to push his hips into and away from the feeling. Corpse rolls the heel of his palm up and down across the head of Sykkuno’s cock, the head rolling under the attention, foreskin pressing and catching against it, dulling what it hides and sending lightning strikes through him where it doesn’t. Corpse grinds his wrist in a circle, applying pressure but not movements across Sykkuno. Sykkuno feels himself chase the pressure, hips moving without permission. He aches,  _ burns _ with the heat under his skin, under the attention Corpse is giving him. Corpse slides his hand over the crest of Sykkuno’s mound, leaving his cock twitching and to suffer the drop of  _ too much _ to  _ nothing _ . 

Until a warmth drags through the slick he’s dripping, Corpse’s tongue wide and flat, against his centre. The hard steel of his piercing knocks against each ridge and fold, sending his hips twitching towards the feeling, left and right. Corpse drags his tongue higher, up until his lips can engulf Sykkuno’s cock entirely. Corpse buries his tongue around the head of Sykkuno’s cock, letting the ball of his piercing fit into the divot beneath the foreskin. He sucks Sykkuno, a hard pull like he’s trying to slurp him down, tiny little head bobs in time to increase the pressure as he goes. Sykkuno huffs at each one, panting with the feeling, unable to feel like he can get enough oxygen into his lungs, but it doesn’t matter because he’s breathing in all that Corpse is, and that’s enough. Sykkuno bites his bottom lip, chewing on the thick of it in his mouth, swallowing his own moans, listening to the slick suckling sounds Corpse is making between his legs. He can feel the tightening in his lower stomach, can feel the clenching in his abs, can feel all his touch-receptors going into overdrive with how close he is. He is on the cliff’s edge, so close to falling. He can feel the crease and scratch of every thread of the covers against his skin, the beads of sweat against his upper lip and forehead, and the cool steel on Corpse’s pants against his legs. His bottom lip falls from the grip between his teeth, mouth forming into a perfect  _ o _ with pleasure, his eyes hazy and distant. 

Corpse pulls away. 

“No, no, please-” Sykkuno cries, hips following Corpse as he moves further away from where Sykkuno wants him. Sykkuno looks down at Corpse, face wet, vision hazy, mouth agape. Corpse holds him by the hips, fingers stopping him from moving, and laughs darkly at him. It verberates through Sykkuno’s chest, sets his heart jackhammering with love and happiness alongside the animalistic lust he feels. 

“Sy,” he sing-songs, “I can’t tell if I’m making my baby feel good when he’s so  _ quiet _ .” Corpse grips his hips, rubbing circles into the crest of his pelvis with his thumbs. “Need you to do better, be good at telling daddy how he’s doing, okay?” 

Sykkuno swallows. He wants to be good,  _ has _ to be good. “O-okay, okay, yes,” he spills out, mouth running rampant. Corpse hums consideringly before patting Sykkuno’s hip twice.

“Sit up, angel,” Corpse orders him, voice a quiet hum. Sykkuno gives an affirming muttered noise, getting his hands beneath him to wiggle up the bed, sitting upright just a little more. Once his behind is beneath him more, he brings a hand to his hair, wiping it from his eyes, away from the clamminess of his forehead under the adrenaline that fills him. He lifts his other hand, holding it out towards Corpse’s own. Corpse follows, looking at Sykkuno with such a softness in his gaze that it makes Sykkuno feel open and raw in front of him in a way being naked could never. 

Corpse dives into the pillows beside Sykkuno, mirroring his position, leaning against the plush of the downy feathers. Corpse slips his hand from Sykkuno’s fingers and brings them to his chin, beckoning it closer, bringing Sykkuno to his lips. He follows, of course. He always does. His presses kiss after kiss, open-mouthed, tongue dancing together in a lover’s tango, to Sykkuno’s mouth, listening to the wet squelch of their lips and tongues for a moment. Sykkuno brings his hand up to drag across Corpse’s thigh, seeking the hard bulge he can see. When he finds it, he grasps it firmly, feeling the weight of it in his grip, hidden beneath the thick cotton of his pants and the thin elastane of his boxer-briefs. Corpse stops moving, stops kissing Sykkuno, a groan of pleasure overwhelming him. He tips his head back against the headboard, an audible thud filling the room with it. 

Corpse drops his hand from Sykkuno’s chin, brings his hand to his belt, the metal of the tip of the belt knocking against the chains and carabiners and clips as he struggles in his lust to remove it. He releases the buckle and reefs the thin leather strap from his waist, pulling it completely free and discarding it like scrap to the side, off the bed, and therefore out of their existence for the time being. 

His fingers shake as he thumbs at the silver button at the top of the pants, clammy hands slipping on the metal before successfully slipping it free. His fingers grip the harsh line of the zipper and he drags it down hastily. Sykkuno’s hand plays with the bulge as he watches, mouth watering, outlining the shape of it with his index finger, pressing against where he knows the base of the head is. 

Corpse pants, the lust and pleasure getting to him. Sykkuno’s breathing is just as ragged, but he’s in a high of pleasure, floating in it like a pool of lust. Sykkuno paws at the waistband of Corpse’s pants, trying to get him to take them off. It doesn’t work, so he instead pulls at the side seams of the silk shirt, tugging it free from where it’s tucked in to the hem. It gives him access to Corpse’s torso more than he had before, and he presses his free hand along his hip there. Corpse digs his feet into the covers and lifts his hips, shimmying his pants down, tugging the waistband of his boxer-briefs as he goes. Sykkuno’s mouth waters at the sight of his exposed flesh. His eyes glued to the spot, imagining his face being bracketed by the swell of the globes. He loves it when Corpse uses him, takes from him what he wants, but that’s not for now. He doesn’t drag them down far, just enough to let his cock free. 

And my, what a pretty thing it is. 

Corpse still has rings on his fingers, silver and black and matted metal. His fist circles his cock, pumping it slowly, dragging the foreskin over the head, pulling it down and back to expose the head fully. With every pull of his foreskin, it jostles the horseshoe piercing through his frenum on the underside of his cock, and Sykkuno can tell by the gasps and jolts in Corpse’s grunts when the piercing knocks against the head of his cock. His black nails serve to highlight how pale his skin is, even here, and how red and aching it has become while he’s been focused on Sykkuno. Sykkuno is enamored with it, like a mountain lion watching a maimed bird fight for its life in its hands. Sykkuno hears Corpse swallow, sees the bob of his Adam’s apple with it, watches the shake of his chest with the deep inhale he takes.

“C’mere, baby,” Corpse purrs, “sit on daddy’s lap, hmm?” 

Sykkuno would trip over himself if he weren’t already sitting, scrambling to crawl over Corpse’s legs, to sit on his thighs, to slot himself high atop them, to settle his cock against Corpse’s knuckles and rings. He sits on his shins, and his arms rest over Corpse’s shoulders, one hand threading into the dark locks, damp with sweat, the other left to point out.

Corpse, to Sykkuno’s dismay, releases the grip he held on his cock, and snakes his hands over the meat of Sykkuno’s thighs, high around the globe of his cheeks, and grips handfuls, pulling him as close as the atoms between them allow. Sykkuno squeaks, feeling Corpse’s cock grind against his own, feeling the bite of his nails pressing crescent moons into the soft flesh of his behind. In his surprise, Corpse latches himself to the underside of Sykkuno’s throat, nibbling at the flesh there, leaving mark after mark, kitten licks against the bruised skin as the colour begins to rise. 

Sykkuno leans into the pleasure, torn between fucking his cock along the line of Corpse’s, or grinding back into the grip of his hands. He ends up doing both, his thrusts long and rounded, his slick dripping along the inner seam of Corpse’s fresh washed black pants. He pants and huffs, little high pitched reedy things as he chases his own pleasure, Corpse’s grunts and little hip twitches and clenching fingertips stirring him on. 

“Careful, angel,” Corpse murmurs, the vibration shaking Sykkuno’s throat where his lips press around the edges of his Adam’s apple. “Getting awful wriggly, there,” Corpse warns, and Sykkuno takes it like the unspoken order it is, stilling his hips in Corpse’s grip, despite the whine that the lack of friction pulls from deep in his throat. Corpse adjusts his fingers, bringing them to the tops of Sykkuno’s hips, and pushes him down, flush against his lap. He grinds up in circular rolls, chasing the heat of his centre, burying the slick that pools on his pants into the spaces between the creases. 

“Look at you,” Corpse grunts, his panting tight and punctuated by each roll of his hips, “such a good little whore for daddy, aren’t you? Just want to be fucked silly, so hard you can’t speak, huh, angel?”

Sykkuno whimpers, fingers clenching in Corpse’s hair. The slide of his slick on cotton pants a dry rub, but he’s been so slick with it that it’s a relief. He’d been so slick that the feeling had been dulled, a relief to his over-sensitive nerve endings, but now he wants more, needs more, needs to feel the roll of each weave of cotton against the head of his cock, needs to feel the vein that wraps along the underside of Corpse’s cock against his own. 

“What do you say, baby?” Corpse growls, his words slurring together, drunk on an endorphin high. As nibbling on the thin flesh over Sykkuno’s collarbone, he asks “wanna make a baby?”

God, and doesn’t that light a fire, a primal urge, a need so strong his whole body stills for a moment, relaxed and content with the idea of it, giving in. A deep, guttural growl rolls through his entire body, pulling him down with it flush against Corpse’s chest. Corpse huffs laughter into the crook of Sykkuno’s neck, pressing kisses, far more innocent than prior ones, to the worried skin there. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, voice raspy with the exertion of trying to keep his voice low, more than usual, “you want me to fill you up? Put a baby in you, Sy?” 

Sykkuno is so overwhelmed. He feels so loved, so cared for, so attractive and worthy of the attention he’s been given, and now  _ this _ ? It reaches a breaking point. Sykkuno sobs, fresh crocodile tears welling in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks, a “Yes,  _ yes _ ,” falling from his blubbering lips. 

Corpse pulls up on Sykkuno’s hips, tilting him back, leaving a void of space between their heated centres. Corpse takes his right hand, spreading the slick evenly across his cock. His hips make aborted thrusts into his fist as he goes, the light reflecting off the wetness Sykkuno has spread across his nice black pants. His head falls back against the headboard, a dull thump echoing. 

“Fuck, angel,” Corpse grunts, eyes closed as he fists his cock, losing himself in the feeling for a moment, “you make me feel so good with just how wet you are in my lap, not even inside you.”

Sykkuno whines at this, wiggling his hips in the hold of Corpse’s left hand, urging him on. Corpse swallows. Sykkuno watches the way it drags his Adam’s apple up, then a long line down, then back to equilibrium on the long length of his exposed throat. Corpse sighs, exhaling hard into the thick of the air between them.

“Be  _ patient, _ kitten. I’ve given you plenty of attention,” Corpse growls, nails of his left hand pressing tight, crescent moons forming in the skin, red and soon to welt. “Daddy deserves some himself, doesn’t he?” Corpse coos, looking up at Sykkuno through heavy lashes, “Or does my baby need something?” 

Sykkuno mewls at that, rolling his hips in Corpse’s grasp, aching to feel full, to be filled. Corpse sighs, laughter rolling into the sound and harmonising into a symphony that sets Sykkuno’s heart on fire. “Okay, baby. I’ll give you what you need,” he promises. Corpse punctuates the promise by rubbing his cock against the tiny swell of Sykkuno’s cock, rubbing the pre-cum that beads at the tip of his cock across the engorged head of Sykkuno’s. Sykkuno’s breath stutters, hiccuping twice before balancing out at the pleasure. 

Corpse slides the head of his cock through Sykkuno’s folds, tilting Sykkuno’s hips at an angle to show his clenching hole to Corpse. Corpse doesn’t take further time to admire it, though he knows he could, and has done so before. He presses into the tight heat of Sykkuno’s hole, and Sykkuno feels the way his body stretches to accommodate the intrusion, so willing and pliant for Corpse to take him. The ridge of the piercing is never unsurprising, and always steals his breath, the drag of the barbell along the wall of his canal. Corpse places his right hand back on Sykkuno’s hip and rolls Sykkuno down towards Corpse’s hips, seating himself fully in the heat, pressed flush against Corpse from knee to chest. They exhale their held breaths through their noses, rush of air intertwining in the menial space between their mouths.

Sykkuno feels so  _ right _ . He feels a high he only ever feels when Corpse pierces him with the fat swell of his cock, fills him with it. Sykkuno moves the hand not in Corpse’s hair to his stomach, aching to feel the way Corpse spears him. His hand spreads flat across the expanse of the skin beneath his navel, and presses firm. The cry that drips from his lips catches Corpse’s attention. 

Sykkuno can  _ feel _ Corpse in him, can feel the thick of his cock where it pierces him and seats itself in him like a permanent fixture, fills him so good. Sykkuno looks down to his stomach, and he’s not stupid, he knows in this position it’s unlikely he’s able to actually see it, but it  _ feels _ like he can see it. He draws a finger around the shape of it, filling in the silhouette in his mind of Corpse’s cock filling out his insides.

Sykkuno rolls his hips in little figures of eight, feeling the roll of Corpse’s cock inside him, hot and full and beating, feels the ridge of the piercing buried deep inside him. It pulls whimpers from him, tiny and quiet like he’s trying to be good and not draw attention. 

But that won’t do, as far as Corpse is concerned. 

“Angel,  _ fuck _ ," Corpse grunts, punctuating it by grinding his hips up into the unbearable heat of Sykkuno. He slides his right hand up Sykkuno’s torso, catching on a rose-tinted budded nipple. Corpse rolls it between his fingers, eyes caught on the way his black nails look against the flush of his chest and the claw marks from earlier, raised and red. He watches the way Sykkuno’s nipple, elastic and soft, gives under his attention, the rough attention darkening its colour and blood rushes to the area. 

He moves on, his fingers scooping under his arm and sliding along the expanse of his back, over his shoulder blade, up his neck, under his fingers slip into Sykkuno's dark hair. He adjusts his grip, then yanks Sykkuno's head backwards, pulling a cry from Sykkuno, high and reedy as he rolls his hips, revelling in the feeling of being filled so well. The grip on his hair exposes the long line of his throat, still red in places from his grasp earlier, with grip marks around his windpipe and littering of bruises sucked into the skin there. Corpse presses his lips to the thin skin there, more open-mouthed caresses than kisses, saliva dampening spot along Sykkuno's neck. At the base of his throat where neck meets collarbone, Corpse sucks and worries the skin between his teeth. 

"Gonna put a baby in you, Sy," he promises, punctuating it with a hard thrust, jostling Sykkuno in his lap, drawing mewl and wail from his lungs. "I'm gonna come in you, fill you up so good with it,” he swears, every ragged line ended with a deep thrust that manages to catch Sykkuno off guard, too lost in the feeling of  _ full.  _ “And if you’re a good boy,” Corpse taunts like he doesn’t know Sykkuno will fall over himself to make sure he’s the  _ best _ baby boy, “if you keep it all in you, then I’ll fuck you again just to make sure it takes.”

Sykkuno can’t do more than whimper little affirming noises, his face streaked wet with tears, his eyes red and puffy from crying, his lips fat from being sucked on and becoming a blubbering mess under Corpse’s gaze. 

“You'd look so good, sweets," Corpse praises. “You’d look so fuckin’  _ gorgeous  _ carrying our kid, yeah?” he asks, looking up to Sykkuno with dark eyes, pupils wide and swallowing the brown and gold Sykkuno gets lost in every morning, and Sykkuno can feel the genuine question there, can feel the genuine  _ want _ in Corpse’s voice, something not driven by lust, but by love. 

Corpse looks down to where Sykkuno’s palm is pressed flat against his stomach, “Would be a fuckin’ sight to behold with a little bump right here," he presses his hand flush over Sykkuno’s, grinding up into him, deep. 

"Oh, fuck," Corpse rasps, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, looking up at Sykkuno like he hung the stars and the moon in the sky. “ _ Baby _ , oh fuck, sweets,” Corpse drools the words, falling out without permission, praises and pet names all tied into one, “I can  _ feel _ me in you, angel,” he spills. It brings a flush to Sykkuno’s cheeks, heating his face even more. Corpse’s hand intertwines with Sykkuno’s fingers, bringing it to Corpse’s face, making Sykkuno cup his jaw as he kisses him deeper than he has yet. Sykkuno can feel the scratch of Corpse’s stubble against his palm, can feel the thick of his lips on his own, can feel the  _ love _ he’s being given. While Corpse kisses the life from him, swallowing his gasps and whimpers, his hand returns to the soft of Sykkuno’s stomach, pressing where he can feel the swell of his cock where it slots home in Sykkuno. 

Sykkuno gurgles a broken record of  _ yes, uh-huh, yeah.  _ He nods, eyes closed tight, circling his hips into the feeling of  _ home _ he feels, stuffed full of Corpse’s cock. Corpse hums, spreading his fingers across the space between Sykkuno’s hip bones, presses in and down. He tilts his hips more towards himself, angling them higher, before thrusting hard and pointed to the space his palm covers. Sykkuno, like a rubber band snapping, screams into the air and curls in on Corpse, bringing both hands into the mop of curls, seeking handholds in them. 

Corpse growls, deep, dirty,  _ possessive _ , and it sounds like he’s done playing games. He grips Sykkuno’s hips tight, holding him still and suspended, rutting up hard and fast into the grip of Sykkuno, into the sweltering heat, into where he’s going to fuck a baby into him. The change of pace jostles Sykkuno, his hair bouncing on his forehead with it, little  _ hm, ah, hr _ noises spilling from his lips with each thrust. 

“God, baby,” Corpse snarls, teeth and tongue laving marks across his neck, his shoulders, his jaw. “You’re just a dirty little slut who gets his fill and then is too overwhelmed to feel it, aren’t you?” he asks, the vibrations rumbling through Corpse’s chest and through Sykkuno’s throat where his lips press. It isn’t a question - it’s a statement phrased like one. And it’s right. 

Sykkuno drops his head, watching the way his body bounces in Corpse’s grip, the way his cock shakes with each thrust of Corpse’s cock disappearing inside him, glistening with the wetness Sykkuno pours for him. 

Corpse brings his left hand from Sykluno’s hip to his cock, holding the foreskin back with two fingers and circling the rim of the head with a third, just like he knows Sykkuno will wail at. And he does, his throat raw with the force of it as it tears through him. 

“C’mon angel,” Corpse grunts, forehead beading sweat from the exertion, “take it all, so good for me.” Sykkuno tugs at Corpse’s hair, pulls Corpse to his mouth to press kisses to his mouth. He can’t, they’re both too overwhelmed, too close, too high, and it ends up being a slotting of open-mouthed panting against one another, the damp heat of their breath interlacing, dancing together like pollen in the wind. The heat in Sykkuno’s core has been at a high simmer for far too long, and threatens to boil over. He can feel the way his abdominal muscles twitch, the way his core grips Corpse’s cock like a snake that caught its prey. 

“Close,” he whispers, somewhere between a whine and a prayer. Corpse nods against his mouth, pressing the tender fleeting kiss he can manage when he, too, is so worked up. He huffs a sharp laugh at Sykkuno.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs as he swipes the tip of his nail directly over the seam of the head of Sykkuno’s cock. “I can feel it, gripping me like a fuckin’ vice,” he growls, all praise and worship. “I’m close, so fucking close,” he matches Sykkuno, hips losing rhythm, a blind thrusting, a chase of pleasure, rather than a dance of lovers. “I’m gonna fill you up, Sy,” Corpse promises, voice pressed and higher than usual. “Gonna put a baby in you, can’t wait to see you pregnant, see you glowing with it, carrying  _ our _ kid,” he praises, words rapid-firing like the nerves all over Sykkuno’s body at every push and pull of Corpse’s cock buried deep. 

Corpse thrusts once, punctuating it with a grind of his hips when he’s buried to the hilt, twice, matching it with a punched-out moan, and thrice, the fingers on Sykkuno’s cock still, and Corpse’s cock is buried as deep as it can go, twitching inside Sykkuno, filling him in all the ways he wants, he  _ needs.  _ Sykkuno feels the way it paints him inside, feels the way it clings to him. He’s close, so close, and he’s clenching around Corpse, milking him for all he’s worth, taking as much as Corpse can give, covering Sykkuno in Corpse, Corpse,  _ Corpse. _

Corpse fucks it into him, the high of his orgasm fleeting, grinding his cock into Sykkuno in slow upward rolls of his hips, pushing his come further into Sykkuno,  _ deeper _ into Sykkuno, sure to fuck it as far in, as deep as he needs. His fingers continue their assault on his cock, letting the edge of his nail catch on the swell of the underside of the head, Sykkuno’s overwhelmed and yet satiated cries falling from his mouth like a prayer. Corpse times the jerks of Sykkuno’s cock with the thrusts of his own, softening to where he feels it beginning to slide down the length of his cock outside Sykkuno. 

“Come for me, baby” Corpse orders, a soft thing filled with love and adoration. And Sykkuno feels the rubber band in his core tighten, so tight, too tight, before it explodes. He moans like he’s been punched in the chest, garbled and shallow and breathless, his eyes scrunching closed with the force of it. His hole clenches painfully tight, milking the last of Corpse’s come from his cock, and he hears Corpse distantly hiss at the overstimulation over the rushing of blood in his ears. It feels like he’s falling and flying all at once - like he’s Icarus before the fall. He feels the sobs wrack through him, the way his mouth curls into a blubbering mess, spilling pleas and thanks and love as Corpse works him though it, fingers unrelenting on his cock. 

Corpse’s right hand slips from his hair, leaving tingles in its wake like static on an analog television, and rests on his back, petting it in the centre, cooing to him. Sykkuno’s head tips down, falling into the crook of Corpse’s neck, nestling where his dark curls stick damp against his skin. Sykkuno pants, heavy and laboured, chest heaving with the motion, Corpse’s breath mirroring the motions together in unison, grounded by the feeling of being utterly sounded by Corpse in all his senses. Corpse’s fingers on Sykkuno’s cock pull down, his thumb kissing flesh streaked in slick and come where they’re connected, caressing it.

“Did good, angel,” Corpse coos against Sykkuno’s hair, pressing a kiss against his scalp. Sykkuno nods, a high pitched whimper of confirmation. His nerves are fried, and every hair that brushes against his skin like the sweet kiss of a needlepoint. His body shakes with the aftermath of his high, muscles twitching under his skin from the ache of being tense for so long. 

Corpse brings both hands to Sykkuno’s back, spreading his fingers wide to get a sturdy hold. He sits up, holding Sykkuno against his chest, and rolls them over, placing Sykkuno on his back, his feet pressed to the bed and his knees pointed up, bracketing Corpse between them. His arms fall away from Corpse, lax against the sheets, heavy like cement. His cock slips from Sykkuno’s heat, and Sykkuno whines, feeling the piercing as it catches on the edge of his hole when it slips against his flesh. Corpse presses kiss after kiss over Sykkuno’s forehead, cheeks, jaw, keeping him grounded through his come down. 

Sykkuno focuses on the feeling of soft lips on his skin, of the brush of stubble against him, of the tickle of eyelashes on his face. He deciphers the fingers that brush up his arms, the shift of Corpse’s knees on the bed, the sound of Corpse’s breath as he coos sweet nothings against Sykkuno’s skin. Sykkuno takes time to let his breathing even out, to let his awareness of the world beyond Corpse creep into his senses. Corpse sits back, leaning on his heels, adjusting his clothing and tucking his cock back into the confines of his boxers. Sykkuno opens his eyes and sees the grey of their bedroom walls in the dim evening, and the sliver of moonlight that streaks across the room from the slit in the curtains. He hears the rustling of leaves outside and the vibration of a phone. He smells the soap-fragranced steam from the bathroom and the sap of the trees outside. He feels the drying sweat on his skin and the threads of the sheets. He breathes in deeply, feeling the oxygen swirl in the deepest corners of his lungs, then brings his eyes to Corpse’s. Corpse’s gaze is stuck on him, and reads  _ care for, love, adore _ . 

“Okay to grab you some water?” Corpse checks in, trusting Sykkuno to be honest and tell him that he needs him to stay close for longer. His hands are rubbing circles into the meat of Sykkuno’s thighs a little above his knees with his thumbs, keeping the two of them together by his grounding touch. Sykkuno’s content smile marks his mouth, and he nods, hair rubbing against the pillows. Corpse murmurs a confirming noise and extracts himself from the bed, catching himself with an unbalanced foot before the other lands ungracefully on the floor too. 

Sykkuno breathes in the scent of the room, of the dissipating cologne Corpse wears, crisp and pine and bergamot. He breathes out, the exhale heightening the satiated drives deep within him, content with the feeling of  _ filled _ . He feels sticky and damp all at once, and it starts to irk him, but the bliss in his bones far outweighs the feeling of sweat on his skin. 

Corpse is quick to return as Sykkuno thinks about all he can see, hear, smell, feel. He hears the footsteps, and a soft knocking of what he knows is Corpse’s phone on the nightstand by the bed. When Sykkuno looks to him, his clothing has been discarded, left only in his boxers. He swallows in the sight of his skin in the sliver of moonlight and the dark contrast of his black ink tattoos, hard lines on slender skin. His weight bounces Sykkuno as Corpse finds his place next to him, but settles quickly. Corpse’s cool metal of his rings and burning heat of his hands pick up Sykkuno’s wrist and something cold and wet with condensation is placed in his hands, plastic crinkling under his grip. He looks to the source and sees a water bottle, still capped. His tongue suddenly feels dry. Corpse then removes the bottle and lays it between them.

“Look at me, baby,” Corpse murmurs, voice quiet in the aftermath. Sykkuno does as he’s told and looks up to Corpse, eyes still a little distant, he knows, but he’s finding his feet with each moment. Corpse brings a palm up to hold his chin, keeping him still. “Good,” Corpse praises. He brings a washcloth up, the washed-out grey dark with dampness, wrinkled from being wrung out. Corpse wipes under Sykkuno’s left eye, then the right. He wipes up against the streaks from his tears on his cheek, and along the line of his jaw and throat. He takes his time, slow with the movements, lingering. When he withdraws the washcloth, it is tinged darker with black. Sykkuno is confused for a moment, wondering why, until he thinks back to how they got here to start with. Corpse sits forward, cleaning away the slick and come from his inner thighs and centre. Sykkuno feels every thread of the washcloth as it wipes over his skin, and never more than as it passes over his raw centre. When Corpse decides he's done, he discards the washcloth on the nightstand and rests against the pillows once more. 

“Come here,” Corpse beckons Sykkuno, patting his pec closest to Sykkuno. Corpse raises an arm around Sykkuno, pulling him into his chest. Sykkuno is soft and pliant, moving with little input of his own, soaking in the feeling of Corpse’s fingers pressing into his shoulder and the warmth that radiates from his skin. Sykkuno pillows his head against the expanse of Corpse’s pectoral, listening to the way each breath fills his lungs and the way his heartbeat thrums in his chest, sending vibrations through Sykkuno’s ear pressed against it. Corpse wraps the arm closest to Sykkuno around his shoulders, their bare chests pressed together, skin to skin contact lighting up every receptor in his brain that says  _ love _ and  _ home _ and  _ safe _ . He drifts there, comfortable in the in-between space of consciousness and sleep and the high of their dance, listening to the way Corpse breathes, the way it creaks in his bones. A vibration shakes Sykkuno’s chest, a deep rumbling, and a low humming fills the room, Corpse’s voice bouncing from his own chest to slither through Sykkuno like a wandering vine of a plant. Sykkuno burrows in closer, pressing himself to the deep-rooted chest voice Corpse uses, letting it wash over him like the rain. Corpse smiles, interrupting the hum, and Sykkuno hears it in the way the pitch and volume change for a moment before the feeling of Corpse’s hand stroking the hair on the back of his head takes precedence.

Corpse picks up the water between them without removing Sykkuno from his position, his fingers slipping on the condensation rapidly gathering in the creases of the plastic, and brings it to Sykkuno’s hand. 

“Drink,” Corpse tells him, voice filled with affection, a soft reminder. Sykkuno nods and with heavy limbs removes the lid, unscrewing it from its place. As he does so, Corpse blindly swats at the bedside table, the click-clack and clunking of his heavy rings against the glossy surface coming like a whip compared to the quiet retreat of their room. He brings his hand back, phone clutched between his fingers. Sykkuno brings the lip of the bottle to his own, letting the crisp coolness of the water wash away the thick dryness of his tongue. The water sloshes in his mouth, parching a thirst he wasn’t aware of until Corpse brought his attention to it. Corpse fiddles with his contact list, scrolling through the list of names and emotes. He taps against it a few times and holds the phone to his ear, a dull ringing distant to Sykkuno. Sykkuno looks to Corpse, watching his distant focus, and focuses on the feeling of cool water moving down his esophagus. 

“What are you doing?” Sykkuno asks, wanting to hear Corpse’s voice, but also wanting his attention back on  _ him _ . Corpse pats his hair, stroking it where it lies, cooing to him in return. 

“Shh, don’t worry about it,” he assures, a soft smile on his plush lips. He hears a female voice answer, and it sounds concerned. Sykkuno thinks it’s Poki, or maybe Rae or Tina, but can’t pick it for how the distance distorts the sound. 

“Hey Rae,” Corpse greets, words as close to a whisper as his voice allows, and the flurry of Rae’s voice beckons back, “yeah, yeah, sorry, I know it’s late notice, but Sykkuno hasn’t been sleeping lately-” he pauses, and Sykkuno can’t decipher the words but can hear both the anger and concern in her voice. “I know,  _ I know _ he needs to sleep more. He nodded off while I was getting ready, and I don’t want to disturb him,” he explains, and for a moment, even Sykkuno believes the lies he’s weaving for the blanket of their cover story. “Raincheck?” Corpse finishes, the apology apparent in his tone, and Sykkuno feels the fingers in his hair twitch with a desire to grip the back of his own neck as an anxious outlet. Sykkuno hears a defeated but concerned confirmation from Rae, a distant well wish for rest, before Corpse ends the call and lobs the phone towards the bedside table. The phone misses, falling to the carpet with a dull thud. His now free arm wraps around his waist and tugs Sykkuno’s body to lie pressed against Corpse’s. Curled in the grasp of his lover, he feels a kiss as it's pressed to his hair. 

Sykkuno truly, madly, deeply loves Corpse.

**Author's Note:**

> The average reading speed is somewhere between 250 and 500 words per minute, which means on average, I've just edged you for about forty minutes. You're welcome/I'm sorry.
> 
> I got most of the way through this before i went "wow this is ooc" and then kept writing anyway because the breeding sykkuno agenda doesn't sleep and my work is never done.


End file.
